An Iffy Memoir
by A Dirty Little Secret
Summary: Memoirs are supposed to be a reflection on someone’s past, a realization of a greater purpose in a previously insignificant memory. I'm not sure if reflecting upon the first two times that I made love to my high school boyfriend count. TroyGabriella.


Honestly, I never saw myself as the memoir type. I saw myself as the occasional awkward poetry type or the sporadically relating songs to my life type. But I never saw myself as the memoir type, because, honestly, memoirs just can't do my memories justice. It sounds conceited, but all I mean by it is that I'm not a seasoned enough writer to be able to capture the vividness of each scene in writing. A few lowly black words splayed out on a boring white page (unless of course I print in blue ink and use pink paper) aren't going to properly convey the joy that was surging through the crowd when the Wildcat's won the championship for the second time in a row while I was at East High, and they certainly won't be able to express the tingle that I felt from my head down to my toes when Troy grabbed me around the waist and spun me until he was too dizzy to do anything but kiss me senseless. However, in honor of a boy—man—that set my heart a flutter on many a day, I decided to give it a try. I never intend to show this to anybody—except him, of course—because of the subject matter, and I even doubt if he'll ever actually get to gaze upon its pages.

People have and, I suppose, always will assume that Troy was the kind of man to shower his lady love in grand romantic gestures. Why, I know not. Perhaps it was due to his sparkling blue eyes and floppy golden hair. Maybe they created the illusion of the perfect boy—man—and everyone then expects thousands of rose petals on the bed and out-of-the-blue trips to Hawaii to lie in the sand and watch the sunset. I don't know. The only thing I know for certain is that Troy has never once pulled apart flowers for me or kidnapped me on an airplane. He has taken me out to dinner at semi-fancy restaurants and he has picked up packets of Sour Patch Kids for me when he was at the store just because he knew that I liked them, but somehow I doubt that those were the grand romantic gestures that everyone was looking for.

It surprised people to learn that Troy had asked me out while we were hanging around in his tree-house and eating ice cream pops, not in the middle of the school hallway, professing his undying love for me as the entire drama club acted out a play devoted to our everlasting relationship. Apparently, people had been on the lookout for it. They'd been waiting for him to get up on the lunch table with a megaphone, calling out my name and reciting Shakespeare. I was relieved that I hadn't had to experience anything that they were talking about. My face turned pink enough when he blurted it out in the privacy of the wooden house high in a tree; I didn't want to think about the new shades of red that would have been splayed across my cheeks had Troy appeared before me in the library wearing tights, strumming his guitar, and singing a love song.

Maybe it was the constant disbelief that I was subjected to that made me feel as though Troy was possibly holding out on me, saving up all his romantic gestures so that he could quadruple-whammy me one day. I found myself a little anticipatory on occasions that were big for us. Our six month anniversary really stressed me out. Not only was it an awkward celebration—due to the summer between junior and senior year that threw us off a little and caused us to celebrate three months later than the actual date of our six month anniversary—but my friends all had me convinced that I was going to be swept off my feet, taken to some gorgeous ballroom to dance all night to a string quartet playing a romantic song over and over as I lost myself in his bright eyes and muscular arms. The sense of panic that they all managed to instill in me is yet to be rivaled. Even though I had planned to despite their coaching, I primped and polished myself beyond reason. There wasn't a hair out of place on me, not a blemish, not a scar. I had a gorgeous dress picked out—just in case, I had told myself—and a stunning pair of shoes to match my new earrings.

Then I received the phone call from Troy that told me not to go too crazy when I got dressed because we would actually be having dinner at his house.

He met me at the curb outside my house, picking me up in his truck, complimenting my simple and boring jeans and my not-even-slightly-as-stunning-as-the-dress flowery shirt the entire ride to his place. His parents were out to dinner, leaving the house vacant for our use. My heart raced as he pulled into the driveway, wondering what type of romantic gesture awaited me inside the two-story home. Then, he clambered over the truck bed to open my door and led me away from the front door.

"We're just going to hang out in the tree-house?" I asked hesitantly, following him down the pathway beside his house. I was trying to avoid hurting his feelings with my tone, keeping it mostly neutral and yet slightly curious, as we strolled across the back lawn, our hands intertwined, but I had to admit that my mind was whirling with confusion.

He chuckled at me, gesturing towards the ladder at the base of the tree. "Of course not. Well, I mean, yes, we're going to hang out in the tree-house. But there's a little more to it that just sitting up there on the hard floor staring at each other." Smiling, he helped me up the first step. "Ladies first." I climbed up to the balcony that ran around the outside, resting back against the railing as I waited for him to ascend. He called up to me, "Now keep in mind that this really isn't all that great." A few moments later, his head popped up and he grinned at his creation. "Like it?"

I stared at the tree-house, the windows covered by some type of dark cloth or netting. "You sealed the windows with felt?"

"Sort of," he laughed, taking my hand again and pulling me towards doorway on the other side. It, too, was covered by material. "It's more like I covered them with felt and netting so that there wouldn't be creepy bugs flying in every two seconds and ruining everything." He pulled aside the dark navy material, waiting for me to move inside. "Plus, I figured that it also prevents anybody from seeing inside and spying on us. Like creepy Mrs. Deagle. She's the kind of old lady who would watch us all night and call my parents with updates. So take that, Mrs. Deagle!"

I stared at the inside of his tree-house, the playhouse that he'd built with his dad when he was younger and had shared with Chad for years before I arrived in Albuquerque. Since I'd first been up there, it had constantly been littered with old toys and other things from his childhood—a cape here, a small robot doll there. But it had been cleaned out, or so it appeared, all the items packed away and moved from the inside. The shelves were covered instead with what looked like candles, and the floor was covered in mismatched scraps of carpet, laid haphazardly to cover the wooden slats.

Shyly, I asked, "How'd you get that up here?" and pointed to the side where, shoved up against the wall and positioned neatly with pillows, there was an air mattress made to look like a couch. His cheeks flushed lightly, and I think he realized that he almost might as well have left it made up as a bed sitting in the middle of the tree-house, but he grinned through it.

"I'm extremely talented. I figured we were better off with that than with a couple of chairs or pillows on the floor." Glancing around, he started, "Oh, they're not real candles, by the way. I would have gotten real ones, but I figured that fire and a whole lot of wood in a tree wasn't really a good combination." Picking up a 'candle', he held it out to me, smiling somewhat proudly. "See? It's a flashlight thingy that I found at the store when I was looking for some stuff."

"It's really beautiful, Troy," I said, gently stepping out of the shoes that I'd worn. He crossed the small space, pulling out a largely familiar picnic basket as he grinned, and kneeled down on the floor. I moved to sit beside him, my back gently brushing against the edge of the mattress. In that brief moment, it felt as though it filled half the room, and I wondered if he'd wanted us to have the presence of a possible bed lurking in the back of our minds. The conclusion I drew left him innocent and searching desperately for a smallish couch that he would be able to carry up a twelve-foot ladder.

As I fingered the fibers of the carpet lightly, he laid a feast out before my eyes, ranging from frozen Friday's mozzarella sticks to neatly prepared dishes of pasta to freshly hand-dipped chocolate-covered strawberries. "I made your favorites," he announced, handing me a fork. "And yes, you heard right, I made them. Well, some of your favorites are actually frozen stuff so all I could do was defrost those, but I actually did make the pasta and I dipped the strawberries and I baked the brownies."

Talk about a quadruple-whammy. The boy cooked for me. What was I supposed to do? I ate a quantity of food that was almost disgusting. It was all delicious, but I felt stuffed completely by the time he decided to really focus on the dessert. He paused, shoving his dish away.

"I just realized something," he said softly, shifting to sit beside me as I placed my plate down on the ground. "I never kissed you." It was true. He hadn't. Leaning over as he cupped my cheek in his hand, I eagerly met his lips with mine as he murmured, "Happy anniversary." When we pulled back, I licked my lips. He stared at me, brushing a piece of hair out of my eyes, and we kissed again, slower but more intimately. The hand that wasn't braced on the ground to keep him upright tangled into my hair, holding me close to him, and I found myself casually scooting back so that I was sitting on the mattress. He crawled along with me, probably not paying attention to our shift, and ended up lying on top of me as I reclined on the bed, casually shoving the pillows out of my way.

He braced himself above me, and I felt him casually kicking off his shoes. The first thoughts in my head were a series of burning questions.

Do you take off your socks when you're about to have potential-sex-make-outs? Was he going to take off his socks? Was I supposed to take off my socks? If I was, how was I supposed to do it discretely when Troy had me pinned flat on my back already? It wasn't as thought he was going to take my socks off for me, was it? Wouldn't that be a little weird? Besides, I'd been pacing in those sneakers for a half hour before he came to pick me up and there was no way that my feet weren't a little sweaty. I didn't want him to remember my sweaty feet! And it wasn't as though I could push him off to take off my socks, was it? Wouldn't that send the wrong message?

I thought to myself in the nanoseconds that felt like hours as he kissed the skin in front of my ear, _'This fucking sucks. My socks have managed to ruin my first time._'

And then I got a sign that everything was going to be alright.

Troy whispered in my ear, "I think we did something wrong. We skipped a step or something." Rolling so that he was laying on his side beside me, he stared down towards our entwined legs. He wiggled his foot against mine. "Are we supposed to be wearing socks? Because I don't think the socks are…"

"Required," I offered at his silent hesitation, reaching down and peeling off one of my gray ankle socks. I tossed it off to the side, relieved. "Socks aren't required. At least, that's what I've heard." He smiled at me, pulling off his own socks, and then settled back to lie along my side, leaning down to kiss me as I tugged off my other sock.

"That's one thing people don't talk about, huh? I mean, you watch movies and people are just going at it, but who thinks about what they're going to do with their socks? Everything else comes off in the process, but socks are sort of out of the way, you know?" I didn't realize it at that point, but we'd already recognized that we were going to have sex that night. Our subconscious minds had made the connection, and everything came out in our words. By taking off our socks, we'd promised to make love that night.

After that, I was amazed at how smoothly we were able to transition back into the kiss. There was no moment of awkward hesitation where we were staring at each other, wondering if we were supposed to be talking still or kissing or touching. We just went back to what we had been doing before, sans socks this time, and I felt my body relaxing. I was completely at ease with where the actions we were taking were leading us. I wanted it all to happen. Somewhere inside, I already knew that I was ready. I knew that I wanted him to be mine in a way that he was nobody else's.

Once upon a time, we'd discussed sex.

When your boyfriend has a direct parent-free pathway into your bedroom—be it through a tree or not—he's going to take it as often as he can, and he'll end up lounging around on your bed at one in the morning when you'd really like to be getting to sleep. And then he'll end up hanging around while you two talk about random things like pizza toppings and favorite childhood movies. And then he'll start holding random objects in front of his crotch. And then you'll realize that you have to have a talk about what you're both expecting out of the relationship—physically. A big red light should go off in your mind when your boyfriend starts getting spontaneous boners while talking about anchovies and _The Lion King_. Clearly, he's not nearly as focused on the small stinky fish or the warthog who struggles with flatulence as he is on the way your pajama top seems to cling to your braless chest—which you actually forgot was braless until you looked down.

I was thrilled to find out that he was a virgin in nearly every sense of the word, as was I. He'd kissed a few girls before, which I had been expecting. I'd seen pictures of him when he was younger and I wasn't blind to the adorable quality that he possessed. Between his adorableness and the charisma that seemed to just drip off of him, I didn't doubt that he would have had quite a few propositions throughout school. However, that didn't make me any more comfortable when I recognized some of the girls as ones in my classes, and it certainly didn't make me any less embarrassed when I had to admit that he'd been my first kiss at age seventeen. He'd promised that I had nothing to be embarrassed about, but I felt immature when I heard that his first kiss had been closer to thirteen. He had made a point of assuring me that kissing was as far as he'd ever gone with a girl, never even attempting to feel anyone up or attempting to receive anything. Knowing that he had just about as much experience with the opposite sex as I did made me much more comfortable with the idea of being physical with him. I wasn't as afraid of making a mistake. How would he know? It didn't mean I was any less self conscious when I was trying new things, but I was much less fearful because I knew that there was no potential judgment. Not that Troy would have ever judged me, anyway, but it was nice to know that we would be learning together.

Lying on the air mattress, I shivered when Troy's hands moved under my shirt. His hands have always been surprisingly soft. I had always figured that his hands would be really rough from all the basketball. His mom must make him moisturize or something. I remember the first time we really held hands because I noticed that they weren't sweaty like Ryan's during musical rehearsal and they weren't calloused like Chad's during high fives. They were just soft and perfect. I like soft and perfect, especially when it's rubbing up my stomach and around to my back and down my arms while my shirt is being peeled off.

Surprisingly enough, the mattress wasn't cold when it hit my bare back. It could have been the fact that his lips were nibbling and pulling at my earlobe though. It could have been the way that every inch of his body was pressing against mine.

Troy's always been about the intimacy of our relationship more than the physicality. That's not to say that he's more inclined to cuddle with me on the couch than drag me into his room to make out on the bed, but Troy is always willing to just hold me for a while when I'm not feeling it. Also, I've picked up on the fact that Chad and Zeke and some of his other teammates are more than willing to share every little detail of the 'amazing head' they got last night with everyone within earshot. Noticing how uncomfortable stories like that make Troy and how he prefers to keep things between us wasn't difficult either. I love that he keeps all the dirty details of our life inside the bedroom to himself. I wouldn't want everybody in East High's locker room to know everything about my life with Troy.

With Troy's value of romance in mind, it wasn't surprising that kissing on the blow up mattress was about as far as we progressed for the moment. We relaxed there together and kissed for a while. I wasn't about to complain. I love kissing Troy, and being able to focus on something other than how bad I was probably going to be at sex was insanely comforting. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that it would be particularly enjoyable for me, either. I knew that it was going to hurt. I knew that in order to do this Troy was going to have to tear me—a small part of me, but a part of me nonetheless. I knew that I was going to bleed, and I knew that I was probably going to cry. However, lying there on that mattress in Troy's arms made me want it anyway.

Kissing him softly and being kissed with so much tenderness just reminded me with blinding force of how much in love with him I am. Not that I had ever forgotten, but it seemed like I was constantly confronted with the reality of most high school relationships. Typically, they don't last very long and, like a lot of Hollywood relationships, they seem to fall apart before they've even truly begun. The stereotypical high school relationship is shallow. I'd never felt anything other than the deepest affection for Troy. There was something different, something special, between us. More than one person had called me crazy for it when I told them, my closest friends included, but I believed with all my heart that Troy and I would grow old together. Unless something drastic were to tear us apart—something truly damaging like cheating, which would never actually happen—I was already certain, at age eighteen, that would be married and have a family together someday.

Anything and everything that happened between us meant the world to me.

The first sign of us moving forward came when Troy lifted the hem of my shirt up over my stomach, his fingertips slipping beneath my bra to brush against the lower swells of my chest. I let out a small sound of encouragement, my hands molding to the curve of his neck as I held his mouth against mine. My back rose off the mattress as he slid the fabric up towards my head, and he finally broke our kiss, staring down at me as he struggled to maintain his balance while he pulled my shirt up and away. I tugged at his shirt too, nodding at him until he stripped himself of it and tossed it to the other side of the tree-house. Afterwards, we fell directly back into the kiss, his arms slipping beneath my body to smooth up the bare expanse of my lower back. His skin felt hot against mine, scorching almost, and I moaned into his mouth.

I was getting so nervous that it was difficult to keep my legs and arms from shaking wildly. It wasn't a scared-nervous. It was more of an anxious-excited-nervous. I didn't want to be nervous. In movies and on television, the first time that the favorite couple has sex is always sweet and beautiful and set to this really amazing soundtrack. I wanted to be confident and sexy and perfect, not nervous and shaky and awkward. I wanted to be good for him, and I knew that I wouldn't be. I didn't want to do it wrong either. My hands were shaking when they moved over his shoulders, down to his chest, and then back up to his face. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and hoped that he wouldn't notice the way my fingers trembled against his skin. But he did.

"Hey," he said, pulling his mouth away from my jawbone even as I stretched up and tried to capture his attention with another kiss. "Are you alright?" I nodded, hoping that would suffice, and brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. "No, you're lying." He shifted his weight onto his forearms and peered down at me, his eyebrows furrowing. "You're shaking. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I shrugged, settling my shaky hands at the base of his neck. "There's nothing wrong. I'm fine."

He frowned, and I felt my stomach twitch. "Why are you lying to me? What's got you all upset?"

"Nothing," I insisted. "I just—"

"Gabriella."

"I'm not upset. I'm just a little anxious." I let my fingertips gently caress the skin between his shoulder blades. He didn't say anything, just kept staring at me, and I continued, "About what's going to happen."

At hearing my reasoning, he cradled me close to his body, pressing his stomach snuggly against mine. "Nothing has to happen. Nothing's going to happen."

"But—"

"No," he insisted, "No, we're not going to do this unless you're totally ready. And you're uncomfortable and nervous, and I don't want you to feel that stuff when we really do this. I want you to want this and I want you to feel good about it. I don't want you to look back at it and regret it." His hands slipped out from under my back and he rolled away from me, sitting up on the edge of the air mattress and shoving his hands deep into his hair. I sat up behind him, leaning my chin against his solid shoulder.

"Troy, I'm not uncomfortable, I'm just—"

He interrupted me. "Look, I'm sorry about this stupid decorating thing. I know it looks… The candles and the picnic and the mattress… It looks like I was expecting something. And I wasn't. I don't want you to feel like I'm demanding it. I just…" I curved my fingers around the inside of his elbow, and the large muscle of his upper arm tensed under my touch. "I was kind of hoping," he admitted quietly. "I mean, we talked about it, and I guess I just came away from it thinking that you were ready. I don't know. Maybe I wasn't paying close enough attention. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," I said, gently tugging on his arm. "I'm not uncomfortable."

He frowned again, "Gabriella, don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," I said firmly, sitting up straight. "I'm not uncomfortable with this. I'm just anxious." He turned towards me, raising an eyebrow disbelievingly. I smiled softly, reaching my hand up and combing my fingers through his hair, "We're going to have sex. We're really going to do it, and I'm anxious because don't want to be bad at it."

He chucked faintly. "It's not like we haven't practiced the lead-up."

"The foreplay isn't what I'm worried about," I chided, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. "Honestly, we've practiced that enough that I'm almost a slut." He chuckled, shaking his head.

I kissed his ear, and he sighed. "You're worried about how it's going to hurt, right?"

"A little," I confessed. "But I'm also worried because I don't know what I'm doing. I don't want to do stuff wrong."

He chucked again. "Honestly, there's not much for you to do wrong. The first time around, it's kind of all on me."

"How romantic," I teased. "That was essentially, 'You just have to lay there and take it, Gabriella.' I'm swooning."

"That's not what I mean." He reached over to wrap his hand lightly around my wrist, nuzzling his nose against my forearm and dusting light kisses up to my elbow. "I mean… If it happens, anything you do will feel good to me." He wouldn't make eye contact with me. "But no matter what I do, I'm going to hurt you."

"But we still want this," I whispered, "And we're gonna do this. We're going to do this because we're ready and because we want this and because I love and because I want to have you." I kneeled in front of him and wound my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me. "I want to finally have all of you."

Somehow, those words were enough to convince him. We kissed our way back to the mattress, lying down once more as our arms entwined our bodies together. He was gentle as his palms eased down my sides and cupped my hips, sliding to hoist my thigh up until it wrapped around his waist and allowed him to settle comfortably between my legs. My back arched at the heat of his hand as he pushed into my back pocket, his fingers tenderly curving around my plumpness, and I felt a moan bubble from my throat when his mouth suckled suddenly at the crook of my neck. Trailing his tongue languidly down over my collar bone, he traced the outline of my bra until he reached the valley of my breasts. He lavished my bare chest with open-mouthed kisses until he removed his hand from my pocket and brought it up to tug the cups down, exposing my hardening nipples to the warmth of his mouth.

As he sucked at my breast, teasing the dark nub with his teeth, his hand slipped behind my back and flicked his fingers at the clasp until the material hung loose around my body. Troy had long ago mastered the trick unhooking my bra, and, despite the growing number of times that we'd done this, he looked totally enthralled every time. He never seemed bored with the same old boobage each time and I liked to pretend that it was because I was the sexiest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. He said that mine was the first nude chest he'd seen. I didn't believe him, and he had said extremely bashfully that magazines and such didn't count because, he added slyly, at one point or another everyone had accidentally been exposed to a National Geographic article about topless women.

The day, he'd claimed, that he saw real breasts for the first time had been in my room. I'd been wearing jeans and a low cut t-shirt that day, and he'd said that I looked sexy. I'd never been called sexy before, and it gave me confidence to pull my shirt off before he got the chance when we were making out later. After that, we'd been slowly working our way from sitting on the edge of the bed beside each other to him pulling me onto his lap. As his hands smoothed up over my back, he had casually unhooked the clasp. So intent upon keeping up as his tongue slipped between my lips, I hadn't noticed until he was pulling the straps down my arms and falling to lie back on the bed, leaving me straddling his hips, topless and surprised. To his credit, he'd maintained eye contact until I covered myself shyly with one arm. He sat up then and kissed me, pulling my arm away and grabbing me around the waist, flipping me to lie on the bed. He'd kissed his way down to my chest, taking his time to cover the length of my neck and the expanse of my shoulders and collar bone. When he finally reached the swell of my breasts, my mind was screaming for his fingers to gently flick at a nipple. He'd called me beautiful and sexy again, telling me that I never needed to hide from him. Then, he cupped the fullness of one with his palm, the pad of his thumb pressing softly against the dark nub as he stared up at me, his mouth lowering to the other as his tongue fluttered out, brushing teasingly over my nipple.

His worshiping became more proficient as time passed and I was more than willing to have him stare at my chest. We learned that I moaned uncontrollably if he toyed with one breast just right while his mouth nipped and suckled at the other at the precise time and that he tended to favor my left. He exploited every trick while we were lying on the air mattress, and I prayed that Jack and Lucille wouldn't come back from their trip early. The idea of having to relinquish their son too soon was sickening. I wanted to keep him to myself for the rest of time.

But, unfortunately, our time together that night was limited and he didn't have forever to worship my breasts. Instead, as I wrapped my fingers in his hair, he returned his attention my lips as his fingers worked deftly at the button of my jeans. His hand eased inside my pants, cupping the apex of my thighs through my panties, and I groaned. I slid my hands down to his shoulders, squeezing tightly at the solid muscles there. He continued to massage me over my underwear, his lips dropping to my chest quickly before trailing back up to my neck. I gasped at the loss when he pulled his hand out of the snugness of my jeans and sat up, bringing me with him as I attempted to maintain the connection between our lips. He chuckled into the kiss and brought his hands to the waist of my jeans, beginning to ease them off my hips. I lifted my body and he backed away, pulling the pants off my legs and tossing them onto the floor.

He grinned, "God, you're so fucking sexy."

I blushed wildly, no doubt, and rose to my knees, pulling him close to me once more until we fell back onto the mattress once more. His weight pressed down on top of me, and I finally felt his arousal pushing against my thigh. His hands wandered up to teasingly squeeze my chest again, and I let out a slight moan as he gently eased his hips against my center. I remember reaching for his belt, trying to blindly undo it as my shaking hands worked sandwiched between our bodies until he finally moved for it himself. He stripped off his jeans, hovering over me in only his boxers and I smiled.

"Check us out," I teased, "Being all almost naked." He smiled at me.

"Only a little more to go."

I nodded, sitting up and glancing down at my underwear, knowing that it was dampening at that point. "How about the count of three?"

He agreed, and we counted down, pulling off our last remaining articles of clothing and leaving them sitting on the floor. I curled my body inward as he crouched beside me, his hands resting lightly on top of my knees. "I've seen you naked before," he reminded me, gently spreading my legs as he shifted forward to kneel between them. "And you've seen me naked."

It was true, indeed. Countless times, we had been bare to each other, be it intentional or not. In fact, the first time I had seen Troy's penis was an accident. A group of us had been at Chad's house for a barbeque and we'd just finished swimming around in the pool, all lazing around the backyard as we tried to get dry before dinner. I had found refuge on a lawn chair and Troy had been standing beside me, drinking from a red plastic cup. Neither of us saw Chad sneak up behind Troy. We'd both noticed when Troy's swimming trunks were suddenly around his ankles. He'd felt the breeze. I'd ended up face to face with a Little Troy whose size I had underestimated quite a bit. He'd frantically tugged them back into place, dropping his cup on the ground and chasing Chad around the yard until dinner. He wouldn't sit anywhere near me for the rest of the night, even when I used my pouty lip and fake shivered, and I hadn't been allowed near his lower body for weeks, regardless of the fact that our relationship had progressed to the point where I was curious. I had finally managed to plant the seeds in his head so that he thought it was his idea to finally take that step. I remember touching him with scientific hands as we sat on his bed, feeling for the parts that I recalled from diagrams in health class. Eventually, once I realized that he seemed at bit put off by my analysis of his organ, I'd given up my mental labeling and wrapped my fist around him, pumping steadily with a pleased smile as moans bubbled past his lips. It hadn't taken long, with a little coaching and encouragement, before he came on my hand and his stomach, and I remember nearly reaching out to touch it. But I'd been too hesitant, and he wiped it quickly away with a tissue before I had a chance.

Troy liked to take care of me. He liked to play the knight in shining armor for the damsel in distress, and I usually let him.

He kissed his way down my thigh, starting at the knee with a languorous pace that drove me insane as his eased his way towards my core. I was leaning on my elbows as he teased my skin with flicks of his moist tongue, watching the way he tasted the curve of each muscle. Feeling my arms give way as I fell back onto the mattress, I heard a high pitched moan squeak from my throat as his fingers brushed over my slicked folds and my hips bucked up against the light pressure of his fingertip. He chuckled, and I lifted my head to peer at him as he lay between my legs. He stroked the length of my folds again, letting out another laugh as I moaned his name. He smiled against my skin as he kissed the bare flesh of my inner thigh, easing his caressing digits against my opening, and I panted loudly, reaching out to swipe my hand at his head. His index finger pushed inside me and I called out sharply, arching my back as he slipped into my molten heat. He pumped his finger steadily, twisting it inside of me as I grew wetter and wetter, and I couldn't control my haggard breaths.

There had been a time when I was shy about letting Troy see my most private region, especially after I had made the mistake of checking out my 'competition.' Boys watch porn. It's undeniable. By the time their brain catches up with their hormones and they realize that real women just don't look like that, it's too late. Their expectations are too high. The last thing I wanted to do, I realized the night after Troy first made the move to take off my pants, was disgust him when he finally saw what lay beneath my panties. I panicked, went into hyperactive mode, and woke up early the next morning. I sat in my bed with my laptop, and I anxiously Google-searched until I found what I was looking for. I was horrified at the ridiculous amounts of obscene material, but I found that nearly every woman involved with 'adult entertainment' is clean shaven. It only caused me to panic more. I didn't particularly want to shave myself bare but, upon further inspection in the bathroom, I conceded to neatening myself. I trimmed the excess, leaving a less wild patch between my legs and a groomed area around my folds. When he finally did peel off my underwear, he hadn't seemed to mind the tidied hair, which I'd been preparing to warn him wasn't going anywhere.

"I'm not…"

He had sensed my anxiety as his fingers traced the outsides of my folds, and he had smiled up at me. "You're beautiful."

He always made me feel gorgeous. And that night in the tree-house was no exception. His tongue lightly teased my bikini line as his fingers curled inside me, shooting a wave of pleasure through my body as I arched up off the bed again, throwing my head back with a moan. He eased his digit out of me, carefully fingering my opening as I groaned with disappointment, and then plunged it back in, his pace increasing dramatically.

"Baby," he whispered against my thigh, his voice deep and calm, "Baby, you have to get wetter." My hips thrust against his hand as he added a second finger, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. His lips pulled lightly at my clit, gently sucking it into his mouth as I felt myself climbing higher and higher. "Baby, _wetter_," he demanded softly, sharply flicking his tongue at me before languidly stroking the entire length of my folds. I cried out, my hands clenching into fists, and he said it again.

"Troy," I hissed in frustration, "Troy, I _can't_."

"You can," he encouraged, his hand flattening against my hipbone, "You have to."

"Troy, to get me any wetter you'd have to throw me in a pool."

His fingers stilled at he stared up at me from between my legs. "It's going to hurt," he said regretfully.

"I'm ready," I insisted, somehow managing to push myself up onto my elbows. I beckoned him to me, and he crawled up my body until I could kiss him again. "I love you," I said, pressing my forehead against his. He nodded, kissing me again, and I lay back down. He smiled down nervously, still kneeling between my legs, and shifted forward until the bare shaft of his length was pressed snuggly against the apex of my thighs.

The air mattress didn't really provide the support that he needed or that I needed, but it didn't really matter. The atmosphere was thick that night and it made the small space inside the tree-house feel hotter than it actually was. When he touched me in those final moments before, it felt like he was burning my skin with his fingertips, and I wanted more. But I couldn't take it. For some reason, I couldn't find it in myself to be assertive enough to ask for it, either. Instead, I flattened my back against the mattress and, cradling Troy between my legs as I felt his arousal pressing against my slicked heat, I waited. In anxious anticipation, I reveled in the feelings that shot down my spine, straight to my center, as his tongue swirled against my nipples and down my stomach. I writhed as his length continued to tease me, rubbing in time as his mouth suckled against the swell of my breast. I scraped my nails down his back, leaving long welts, and rocked my hips against him as I bit teasingly on the skin of his neck and shoulder.

We each left our own bruises, many, before he paused all of his ministrations at once and stared at me. "Be right back." He left me, so near to my climax, on the mattress as he darted across the room and rooted through his discarded jeans for the small foil packet that we both desperately needed. Finally pulling it out, he returned to kneel between my legs, rolling it on to his member as it stood erect, appearing much bigger than I'd remembered even from moments ago. "Okay," he whispered. "We're doing this." It sounded enough like a question that I nodded, reaching out for him as he positioned himself. I held his face, his arms, his shoulders, and felt the thick head of him press against my smallness. I whimpered in fear before he'd gotten inside me at all, and I bit my lip nervously. But he continued like I had hoped he would. I stretched a little bit even though I hadn't thought that I would, and the logistics of the act, I realized, were nothing like round-hole-square-peg.

He eased his way into my heat, and I lathered his face with chaste kisses, trying to keep the winces hidden from him as my muscles strained to accommodate him better. When the tip of his member finally touched my true barrier, he pulled out slightly and created a smooth rhythm that always stopped before he could break it and truly take my innocence from me. "Do it fast," I whispered, wanting to get the pain out of the way so that I could potentially enjoy the feeling of him filling me as we rubbed against each other. He braced his hands on either side of my head, the air mattress making it difficult, and told me again that he loved me before finally pushing into to me, burying himself to the hilt inside my body. I cried at the pain, small and slow tears, and I clawed his back to shreds when I sank my nails into his skin. He didn't move, only sucking on the crook of my neck as the small tears rolled down my cheeks, once moving to kiss one off the corner of my mouth. I felt my body pulsing, both with the pain of being ripped and the amazement of being so connected with him. A slight whimper came from Troy as he pressed his lips to my jaw, and I knew that what he was enjoying the feeling of my muscles being wrapped around him. But I knew that he needed the movement. When the pain was finally not the first thought in my mind and I was able to smile at him, I nodded. "Go slow, okay?"

He seemed so hesitant to move his hips, attaching his lips to my earlobe as he began rocking. The pain shot forward again at the fresh agitation and I whimpered, moving my hands down to his hips to accompany his motions so that he wouldn't stop. I could sense him losing control, and I knew that I might have been too afraid of the pain never dulling to allow him to start once more. He was starting to shake, and his pace continued to increase ever-so-slightly. I wanted to do the selfless thing and tell him to let go and do what he needed to do, but it wasn't that simple. I wasn't okay yet and, even if I had truly wanted them to, the words wouldn't have come out. Even though I knew that it was just too hard to forget the pain, I still felt a little guilty, knowing that neither of us would be able to enjoy our first time to the full extent. The pain had been expected on my side, but I hadn't realized what my reservations would do to Troy. He was so concerned with me and my discomfort that the moment was going to become unbearable for us both. And at the same time, I was guilting myself into feeling completely responsible for ruining our first time when I knew perfectly well that nobody's first time was ever truly perfect.

Ideally, my first time with Troy would have been in a room filled with candles, something he had actually managed to pick up on, on a bed covered in blood-red sheets with soft music playing in the background that conveniently moved into a crescendo just as we did. I would have been able to pleasure him wildly, and I would have had several orgasms. Realistically, I wasn't about to climax in sync with classical music. But I still held on to the hope of pleasuring my boyfriend. I couldn't ignore the pain, but once it finally dissolved I would be able to handle the mild discomfort. I croaked it out, and he knew I didn't mean it. "Faster." He bit down gently on my ear, keeping the same slow and slightly unsteady pace, and I repeated it with a little more conviction. "Faster, Troy. Please." I pressed my fingertips into his waist, urging him on, and when he finally sped up the thrusts of his hips I resigned myself to thinking about only him and not the junction of my thighs.

I watched his face carefully during those remaining moments where he and I were connected before he climaxed, moaning my name into the crook of my neck.

He experienced bliss.

He remained very still for a minute, his weight pressing down on me and his member still embedded deep inside my heat as he panted my name. I stared at him, my lips and tongue ghosting over his shoulder, and he tightened his hold on me, his eyes shut firmly. After a few moments, he lifted his head away from my neck and met my gaze, his eyes bright and exhausted. Leaning down, he pressed his lips resolutely against my mouth and eased himself out of me. I gasped again and he pulled away from me, quickly cleaning us both off with tissues and wrapping the condom up, placing it to the side.

I hadn't gotten there, and we both knew it, even though he'd managed to bring me to the brink shortly before the pain. I was grateful for his efforts and, though I may have been slightly disappointed at my lack of physical gratification, it felt emotionally as though I'd come right along with him. I wished that the sex in the tree-house had been our second or third time being together, or at least a time when I no longer felt the pain. I wanted to watch his face as my muscles squeezed around him as I reached my peak, I wanted to see him come in the throes of passion when he wasn't worried about the drops of blood that he had spotted on the condom between thrusts. Something in me, I realized, wanted to be able to throw him back and fuck him senseless, watching the ecstasy explode in his eyes.

As he fell down onto the mattress beside me, I shifted over to allow him room before moving back to snuggle against his side. Our sweaty bodies stuck together where we touched, but all I could think of was getting closer to him and feeling more of him pressing against me. I was sore, but all I could think about was the day when I would be able to roll over and lay my body on top of his, feeling every sweaty muscle molding to me. I looked forward to the day when he would fill me again and I would share his pleasure and we would truly be making love _together_.

I rolled onto my side and waited for him to spoon against me, his arm falling snugly over my stomach after it swept a few sweaty strands of hair away from my neck. "You're okay, right?" he asked, his breath hot against my ear. I nodded. We laid there in silence for a long time, or what felt like a long time, and I remember staring down at his arm and the way it crossed my naked body, holding me against him as he slept. Running my hand over the back of his wrist, I smiled to myself and allowed my eyes to flutter shut with the soft texture of his skin as the last thought in my head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered suddenly, and I realized that he was still awake, turning to look at him. "I know it— I mean, I know you didn't—"

I continued rubbing my fingertips over the muscular swells of his forearm, and I shook my head. "Don't apologize. You made it better than I thought it would be." I bit my lip. "That's came out wrong. Well, sort of. I didn't know what to expect for my first time, and you made it kinda good."

"It didn't hurt too much, did it?"

"It went away a little bit," I told him, "But don't worry. Because now it's done. And the pain will go away. And next time will be even better."

"But what about this time?"

"It was okay," I insisted, "Don't worry."

"I want you to feel it," he whispered. "I want you to know how good it feels."

"I will," I assured him. "You'll get me there. Next time."

We talked for a while, but he felt me starting to shiver and bashfully suggested we get dressed again since he had forgotten to bring a blanket up into the tree-house. After we put our clothes back on, the rest of our night together was largely a blur filled with small kisses and chocolate-covered desserts until he jumped as my tongue slipped between his lips and pulled a buzzing cell phone from his pocket. He'd set an alarm to remind us both of my curfew, and our time was up. Groaning sadly at the news as he helped me to my feet, I followed him down the tree-house ladder and out to his truck.

"Maybe I should drive," I suggested, "You seem a little sleepy, Wildcat."

"I can't let you drive yourself home."

"You can. And you will." I held my hand out for his keys. "You can power nap." And he did, sort of, drifting in and out of consciousness on the soft ride back to my house. Upon pulling in the driveway, he shot up, leaping out of the car so that he could open the door for me. He walked me to the front porch, his hand clasped firmly around my own as we climbed the steps. Stopping just short of the front door, he pulled me into a hug and kissed my ear, murmuring, "Happy anniversary."

"Are you going to be okay driving home?" I asked nervously as I returned the embrace, hearing the fatigue in his voice.

"I'll be fine," he promised. "I'll blast the radio and I'll drive slow."

"You better get home safe," I threatened. "Or I'll kill you." He smirked at me, and I leaned up on my toes to kiss his mouth softly as his hand eased its way into my curls. "I love you, Troy." His smirk faded into a soft smile and he stroked his thumb over my cheek.

"I love you, too, Gabriella."

With a last kiss, he watched me go into my house, waiting on the stoop until I closed the door and teasingly flicked the porch light on and off.

"How was your night?" my mother had asked, coming up behind me as I attempted to slip up the stairs.

Sighing happily, I grinned, "It was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

"Oh?"

"He cooked insane amounts of food—my favorite foods—and we had a little picnic in his tree-house and there were fake candles and it was all just wonderful. God, I hope he's still like that when we're old and wrinkly and there are all these other prettier girls in the world."

She laughed at me. "Honey, you could be three thousand years old and covered in saggy skin and that boy would still think you were the most beautiful creature on this Earth."

-x-

When Troy and I made love for the second time, it was in my bedroom a few days later. We were supposed to be studying for our history midterm, but my mom, forgetting that Troy had come over in the mid-afternoon, had called up the stairs to inform me that she was driving over to the mall to pick up an outfit to send out for my baby cousin's birthday. As soon as the door closed downstairs, our pens dropped. I had carefully removed my socks and let them fall to the floor, and he understood perfectly, pulling off his hoodie. He was left sitting on the edge of my bed in the hottest jeans I had ever seen and the thinnest, sexiest, clingiest white t-shirt. He'd then proceeded to stare at me, casually kicking the textbook to the ground. Then he shoved my notes off the bed and grabbed my ankle, pulling my body over to him. I giggled, and he held on to me, leaning forward to kiss me.

It wasn't fast. We didn't rip our clothes off and hump like wild rabbits. But we moved a bit quicker than when we were in the tree-house. It was beautiful, actually. After we finally broke our kiss, we stripped first, like a scene out of a movie, and then climbed back onto the bed together. We explored each other like we had done other times before, touching here and stroking there. Once again, before we were truly united, he brought me to the brink of bliss. We weren't stupid. It was going to be uncomfortable for me again, but he was determined to pleasure me as much as possible. The foreplay stretched on longer than it had the first time because he kept teasing me, making me beg. Nothing too dirty, but he wanted me to be thoroughly aroused and about a millimeter from climax beforehand. I was.

By the time he pressed the tip of his condom-covered member against me, I wanted nothing more than to feel him inside me. He pushed in, and I felt sore as I stretched, but the stinging from the last time wasn't really there. He slid back and forth easily, groaning with every forward thrust of his hips.

"God, Gabriella," he had moaned, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Oh, God, you…"

I felt it that time. I felt the stirrings of pleasure as his length rubbed against the sensitive muscles inside my core, and my back arched every time he pulled out and pushed back inside. His thrusts got harder, and my head lolled from side to side, my arms flying around. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I wanted to grab onto something, but I didn't know what to hold. My inner muscles were tightening around him, and he told me so in a series of grunts and pants against my ear, and it made my whole body want to clench. I tried curling my fists around the bed sheets, but there wasn't enough resistance. I tried wrapping my arms around him, and my fingernails dug into his back, scraping down his skin as I began to lose control. He moaned, and I worried that I was hurting him, but he lowered his head to my neck and suckled there, chanting my name.

Everything he said to me, every whisper of my name and every ambiguous groan, sounded heavenly to my ears. It didn't matter what he was saying. I loved hearing him groan my name and pant into my ear because everything sounded so beautiful. It was like a little vocal way of sharing what our bodies were sharing. I can't remember what I said to him, but I know that I was chanting something at some point. I hope it was his name and not some random grunting sound. Each time that he mumbled something against my skin, matching every syllable with a thrust into me, I wanted him to know that it was all him giving me such mind-boggling pleasure, that all I never needed to be happy was to lay in his arms.

As we got closer to the peak, I could tell, almost see, that Troy was starting to get a bit panicky. Our first time was still fresh in his mind, no doubt, and he had to have been remembering that he had experience a type of ecstasy that I hadn't. He leaned all of his weight onto one elbow, anchored beside my head, and began running his free hand over the swells of my body. He sucked at the soft skin behind my ear, whispering to me with shallow breath.

He urged me on. "Come on, baby. Come on, I can feel it. You're right there, aren't you? Right there." He tried so hard to make me come before he did. And his frantic circling of my clit with his free hand paid off. I shuttered wordlessly with my orgasm, my whole body tensing as I arched up off the mattress and dug my fingers into Troy's solid back. A few seconds later, he cried out something about "Fucking tight!"and gave a few final thrusts, letting his forehead come to rest on top of mine.

It was absolute euphoria.

"Gabi, Gabi, Gabi," he rasped. "Love you. Love you."

I grinned up at him, letting out a ridiculous laugh, smoothing my palms over his shoulder blades. I exhaled, sighing contently, and giggled again as my eyes closed, "Love you, too."

I don't know how long we were lying there like that, but I gasped when he pulled out of me and crawled off the bed, moving to dispose of the condom. I felt cold and empty, and I kept my eyes closed until he came back and slid under the covers, pulling them up over me as he collapsed back on the bed. His head fell beside mine on the pillow, and I shifted to lay my cheeks against his bicep.

Suddenly, he started, rolling onto his side as my head fell against the cool pillowcase again. "You did, right?" he said anxiously, struggling to push his body up off the mattress. "I mean, I felt it. I felt you. And you—"

"I did," I assured him breathlessly. "Oh, God, I did. God, oh God, did I."

"Oh, thank God. I wanted you to—," he gasped for air, shaking his sweat-matted hair away from his face. "But I didn't know."

"I did."

He beamed down at me. "You came. You really did come."

"I did." I raised a hand to stroke a fingertip down his cheek. "You made me come."

He smiled again, bending to lay his head on my chest and laugh, brushing his lips against the underside of my chin. "I love you. And you're such an ego-stroker."

We fell into silence briefly, and I ran my fingers through his hair as my eyes began fluttering shut. My whole body was beginning to unanimously relax, and it became a struggle to lift my arm. My eyelids were becoming unbearably heavy when he spoke again.

"I don't understand," he panted, his beam from the knowledge of my climax fading slightly, "How people can treat that like it's no big deal." I asked him what he meant. "I don't understand how people can have casual sex if they've ever had meaningful sex. How they can just fuck around with anyone random after they've made love to someone. All I can think about right now is how amazing it felt because I was surrounded by _you_. I was inside _you_. I was giving you that fucking wow feeling, and _you_ were the one that was giving it to me. Shit, when you came… God, your face was beautiful."

I smiled at him and giggled, because he sounded like a little kid on Christmas who had just gotten the best gift in the history of the world, but he wasn't done.

"I never want that with anybody else. God. That was—"

"Never?" I had to ask. He sounded so certain, and I had to know if he understood the implications of what he was saying.

"Never," he said, moving to kiss me softly on the mouth. "I only want to have sex with you for the rest of my life."

It was a line, but he hadn't meant it as one. It was one of the most romantic things he'd ever said to me, because even in his rambling post-coital exhaustion he said he wanted to have me around for the rest of his life. Or at least give up sex after me. I peered at him through heavy lashes, feeling every muscle in my body strain against sleep, and I smiled again. "Wish granted, Wildcat."

He chuckled at me and rolled over, shifting to spoon his body behind mine with his arm draped over my stomach as he had the first time we made love. He kissed the back of my neck and whispered into my ear until he was physically unable to move any longer. Then, we fell asleep beneath the covers on my bed, sharing each other's warmth.

I woke up in his arms, and it was one of the best feelings in the world. Waking up to find him beside me made it feel like he was truly mine. He was watching me sleep and stroking his fingers over the length of my body. "Good afternoon, sleepyhead," he teased quietly, the palm of his hand flattening against my stomach. At my lazy smile, he chuckled. "Did you have a nice nap?"

"So nice," I whispered, bringing my hand to cup his cheek.

"Well, that's good." I nodded. "Unfortunately, we have to get up now."

"No."

"Oh yes," he teased, "We're lucky your mom didn't come home while we were napping and catch us like this. The last thing that your mother needs to see is me all naked and sweaty and on top of you."

"I just want to lay with you," I told him. "I just want to stay here with you in this little bubble. I want to stay here and forget about the rest of the world. It's just you and me and this feeling, right here, right now.

"I want that too," he whispered, "But unfortunately I have to face the reality of the situation. Your mom is going to come home, and her finding us in bed isn't going to end well for anybody. I would like to keep my penis attached to my body, thank you, and it would be awesome if I wasn't barred from the house for sleeping with you." He rolled away from me, pulling on his boxers as his slipped out from beneath the blankets. He walked around the bed and gathered his clothes, draping them over the arm of a chair before coming to crouch beside the bed. Resting his nose against my forehead, he smiled. "I am going to go," he murmured, "And take a shower." His lips curved into a kiss against my temple and I watched him retreat into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. And I followed.

We showered together. We didn't have sex in the shower, because that would have been pushing our own physical limitations at the moment. Instead, we washed each other. It was sexy, yes, and intimate and I believe Troy did get a bit excited, but we didn't have sex. He knelt in front of me while I lathered the shampoo in his hair, and he kissed my stomach as I rinsed the suds away. He stood with his body pressed snuggly against my back, rubbing a soapy washcloth over my chest and abdomen. I remember lifting my arms up to wrap them back around his head, my fingers tangling themselves in the moist strands of his hair. My head rolled back, falling onto his shoulder, and he teased his tongue over the length of my neck.

We stayed in the shower until the water started to get cold, and then we toweled each other dry. I watched him dress, observing his careful hands as he zippered his pants and each flex of his muscles as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. His eyes were electric as I dropped my own covering to the ground, and he grinned at me while I pulled fresh—and far less sexy—panties up my legs and slid into my jeans. I turned to grab my bra off the ground and found him standing behind me, his fingertips easing the straps up my arms and fastening the hooks against my back. He kissed my neck and told me that I was beautiful, wrapping his arms around my lower abdomen. He followed behind me, his lips ghosting over my shoulder, and I took small steps across the room, working my way towards his hoodie. He laughed at me when I pulled it on, tugging at the sleeves that hung a few inches past the tips of my fingers.

We kissed again, and he pulled me back to the bed, tossing me down onto the mattress. He flopped down beside me, leaning on his elbow. "Should I leave, or…?"

"No," I said quickly, "Don't go."

He chuckled at me, laying his mouth against my cheek.

My mother returned from the mall forty-five minutes later and found us curled together on the couch in the living room. We were 'watching' a movie. In reality, I'd been far too sleepy to actually stay awake during the film, and I had fallen asleep with my head on his lap. He heard the jingle of her keys in the lock and gently eased his fingers into my hair, rousing me from my slumber in time for her the walk through the door. She'd invited him to stay for dinner, offering to whip up a batch of brownies afterwards. He sat next to me at the little round table in the kitchen, and his free hand tenderly massaged the inside of my thigh while we ate. My mother noticed the shift in our behavior, the way we always had to be touching each other, even when we were clearing away the food and washing the dishes, but she didn't say anything. She seemed to brush it off as hormones, and I made sure to volunteer to take the garbage out so that there was no chance of an accidental condom discovery on her part.

Troy stayed late that night, huddled beneath a blanket with me while we watched another movie, my mom busying herself in the kitchen. He only submitted to leaving when his father called him, reminding him of an early morning practice. He groaned and whispered to me that he was certain he would be too exhausted to participate. I flushed from the bottom of my neck to the top of my ears and he only smiled, kissing my head as he told me that the last thing he wanted to do was leave me alone in my bed that night. At the front door, he lowered his mouth to mine and it lingered there until I begrudgingly pulled away, reminding him that his parents were expecting him home.

"I love you," he whispered, drawing me into a tight hug as his hands curved against my lower back.

He moved to let go, and it was my turn to hold out for more in the doorway of my house, painstakingly and permanently engraving every minute detail into my memory.

Like I've said from the beginning, I never saw myself as the type of person who would excel at writing memoirs. To me, it has always felt as though memoirs are supposed to be a reflection on someone's past, a realization of a greater purpose in a previously insignificant memory. Through careful analysis and recollection, one is supposed to draw meaning from their life, a sense of understanding. I don't know that reflecting upon the first two times that I made love to my high school boyfriend count. But I do know that I wrote this because I never wanted to lose these memories. I never wanted to forget everything he made me feel on those two days.

I'm not much older now than I was when all of this occurred. It isn't as though anything dramatic has happened to me since that has made me want to rethink and reevaluate my entire life, nothing has made me want to forget the present and dwell only in the past. I haven't found a new but unsatisfying lover, I haven't been struck with a terrifying disease, but most importantly I haven't lost Troy. Life continues on as normally as it had those two days, albeit for small changes that come with of growing up.

Troy has been watching me write this for however long I've been working on it. He keeps asking what I'm writing about, wondering when he'll be able to see it. I don't know if I'll ever hand it over to let him read it, but I can't doubt that he'll sneak my laptop out of its case one night when I'm asleep and read it anyway. I have to wonder what he'll think. I have to wonder if he'll agree with my accounts, or if he'll notice some discrepancies between my version and his own memory. I'll be curious every day after I finish it to open it and find his typed corrections in different colored font.

I wish he would stop staring at me in his typical Troy way. It feels like he's trying to read my mind, trying to decipher what I'm typing through the reflection in my eyes and the thoughts running through my head. He's sitting on the edge of my bed without a shirt on, rolling a wad of paper between his palms. The crinkling is ridiculously distracting, but when I tell him that he retorts that the constant tapping on the keyboard is just as irritating to him. I stick my tongue out and he grabs for the computer, but I dodge away in time. It's clear that he's more curious than ever to read what I'm writing. I tell him that he'll be allowed to read it when I'm done.

He begs for me to tell him what it's about, and I tell him it's about us.

He grins, asking me when the monstrous memoir about us is going to be done.

I tell him soon, but I don't mean it.

I doubt that our story will ever be finished.

-

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-

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**Author's Note:** So, right about now I probably deserve to be stoned (like back in medieval times when they would tie people up in the public squares and throw rocks at them). But I'll get to that in a minute. I want to clear up a few things first, and I want to talk about this piece. I don't really know where this came from. Maybe it came from all the M-rated pieces I've read and my sudden desire to try to present sex between two in love teenagers more realistically than I have in the past. _Saint Valentine's Day_ was a piece was a piece that focused on two characters who were clearly _very_ sexually experienced, and I guess I wanted to give the whole first time, losing virginity thing a try. Largely, up until this point, I've been a PWP writer. There wasn't a lot of emotion or purpose behind what I wrote aside from having my wicked way with the characters. I wanted to try to do something different with this piece and really capture the feelings that motivate the sex. Also, the first person perspective was new to me. On that note, reviews would be appreciated because I would really like to know how I did with this.

Now, moving on to other things -- quickly, so this AN doesn't get to be longer than the story.

First: **Blood Red and Misery Black**. (This is where I feel guilty for the shameless plug for my own writing.) That was the first piece I did for the HSM fandom that I feel had any real trace of deeper emotion to it, and I really would have loved feedback on it, but there didn't seem to be much interest in it. That's okay. It's a Chad/Sharpay piece with Troy/Gabriella and slight hints of one-sided Troy/Sharpay, which is probably a large part of why it didn't get much reader traffic, but I'm also a little concerned that the title and summary gave the false impression of violence and character death. There is no violence. The title is merely referencing colors of importance in the story.

Second: **Working Late**. (This is where I feel guilty in general.) That story was something that hit me one day. A sudden bought of inspiration just took over my muse and that first piece came about. I want to continue it. I really do. But a large amount of that story came from an inspiration that was gone for a long time. I tried to satiate desires for more Troy/Gabriella intimacy with _Saint Valentine's Day_ while I worked on _WL_, but I knew it wasn't the same. A lot of my attention lately has been on practicing realism in my writing--both for FF and for my personal writing. That's part of why _WL_ hasn't come naturally to me for quite some time. I have to force myself to write for it, and it's noticeable in the writing. I don't want to post something substandard, even though I'm assuming it feels like _anything_ would be good enough after this long of a wait. It wouldn't be to me. The inspiration comes back on and off, so it's going to take me a while to get back to a place where _WL_ feels right. I'm sorry if that disappoints some people.

So.

Getting back to Gabriella's **Iffy Memoir** again, I hope you enjoyed this! Constructive criticism is always welcome.


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